


Whereabouts Unknown

by jenni3penny



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to whathobertie's Post Secret fic challenge. Callian. Prompt: 'I don't know where all the states are.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whereabouts Unknown

He wasn't a man to be pushed into somethin' he wasn't prepared for – not as an adult - and that was a general rule. An old stand-by of a rule that'd served him well enough so far. And simple as that, really. Wasn't it? Nobody was gonna drum him into doing something he didn't wanna do. Just wasn't Cal Lightman – wasn't Lightman-esque or Lightman-ish or even Lightman-Lite.

He was, however, (always had been) especially adept at tripping go-lightly into shitstorms that found him neck deep in ' _how'd this happen, then?_ '. Put lightly, he had an exemplary talent for stepping right into worst-case scenarios like they were worn in slippers... comfortable, eh? Something like being at-home-happy, always being up to his ears in the mucking up? He'd carefully cultivated that talent, actually. Made it a positive career move, something motivational, surely. Lucrative, in a roundabout way.

But pushed? Shoved into doing something? Urged, nudged, prodded? Wasn't bloody cattle, was he? And hadn't he long had enough of being pushed around, shoved at, knocked about? Hadn't he promised himself long enough ago – wasn't gonna deal with it anymore. He just wasn't going to take it.

But his sweet Emily (who couldn't seem to shut herself up)? Emily was a pusher. Even worse, she was a nudger (as in, _wink-wink_ ). An exceedingly adorable, irrepressible, and lovable _nudger_. She poked at him now and again - and 'now and again' was starting to become every night, generally round dinner time. She was prodding at him like her forefinger was electrified and he was halfway down the damn chute already - but she was doing it so _sweetly_ , affectionately and as though she only had his interests in mind.

_“Love the skirt Gill had on today.”_ **POKE**.

Cheeky little shit with wide and supposedly innocent eyes, mindful of every lesson he'd ever taught her and keeping her face passive and unmoving. Course she'd draw attention to that. Of course. Though... he'd agreed with her appreciation for that particular item. But he hadn't been studying the fabric or design of the hip wrapping skirt so much as how delicately the evenly tailored hemline seemed to skim the back of one tensed thigh. A fact he'd unconsciously noted as Foster'd leaned over her desk and given him a slip of a glimpse at the back of her right knee. He'd near salivated when the muscles had flexed and she'd straightened again just before turning. He'd, maybe and hours later, closed his eyes into licking an imaginary damp little spot on that thinly sensitive and soft skin.

_“Gillian coming to dinner?”_ **NUDGE**.

She had, actually, ended up joining them for dinner that night. Had actually gone a little tipsy on wine, genuine happiness and teasing laughter between him and his daughter.

And he had, actually, slumped lower in his place and enjoyed the dream-like haze of a moment wherein his daughter and his Gillian were both laughing over something on the girl's phone. Advice about boys, about dating, and inane chatter - not much he actually cared about but more than enough to slow his breathing to Molasses speed. And both of them had seemed deliriously happy for a millisecond or ten and in that time his entire body had flacked back in a rounded booth seat – sacked of energy and just dwelling low in the sweetness of possibility. He'd barely regained the ability to speak properly by the time he'd taken her hand and led her into a cab just to see her home safely.

_“Don't you think you should just tell her, dad?”_ **PROD**.

No... actually, he most certainly didn't think he should just tell her anything. Because, mainly, he had no idea how. No clue as to what to say or even where to start and especially when she looked at him over and over again with _those_ eyes. How was he supposed to, huh? Just up and say it without warning? But then anything less than just flat out telling her, with complete sincerity, seemed like a gyp or ploy of some sort, like far less than she deserved. Wasn't easy, was it? Just telling a woman she was all he desperately wanted but didn't rightly deserve? Telling _this_ woman anything of the sort.

So, no. Not bloody likely. He wasn't likely to be pushed directly into telling her how he really felt. Even if his own daughter was being a cute little wrangler herself. But his general demeanor, the way he may _usually_ do things... that didn't disregard the distinct possibility that'd he'd reflexively leap (both feet first) into possibly accidentally telling her - because he was, sincerely, absolute shit at keeping himself tethered sometimes.

Despite the fact she deserved far more than that.

In fact the way he usually did things pretty much guaranteed that he'd end up telling her exactly how he was feeling while knee deep in a shitstorm of his own making... and probably end up looking like a fool in doing so.

Self-fulfilling prophecies always looked right ridiculous in hindsight, yeah?

 

**

 

It came within days and while she was cutely rambling about catching a flight to Whitefish, Montana and he was right in the middle of trying to decide if Montana was to the right or left of that little out-y bit of Utah. Idaho. No, right, yes... either was correct... he'd no idea. Right, so it came within a mere seventy two-ish hours of Emily finally grudgingly silencing herself on the subject and supposedly letting go of her obsession with him and Gillian and _feelings_.

Came at him sideways too, right outta the left of his peripheral and entirely unexpected.

Because that's where Loker had been standing, just to his left and half angled away.

That's where **_that look_** emanated from, echoing hungry and salacious from his left and catching his head sharply swiveling toward the younger man. The movement made as she gave them both an eye roll and left the room with her files tucked into her chest and half sipped coffee in one hand.

It was a look he himself was distinctly familiar with, one he'd felt fall over his own features often enough that it was second hand and homey.

No way in hell Loker was allowed to live there, in that look, too – not when it came to her.

“What the hell was that?” He demanded, voice dropping gritty and dark. “Eh?” **POKE**.

All the rigidly stretched fingers on his right hand shoved into the younger man's chest, knocked him back a step as Cal evened their stances toward facing each other.

“What?” Loker shrugged at him, his larger shoulders sagging low as he pathetically feigned ignorance. “What was what?”

“I ever,” Cal hummed a barely controlled disdain into the words, “ever see you lookin' at her with that in your eyes? Ever again?”

“She's an attractive woman. I just - ”

An _attractive_ woman?

_Attractive_? And some more.

And the snarky little shit didn't need to point it out to him or anyone else. “You _just_ nothin'.”

“She's an attractive, intelligent and _single_ woman and if I - ”

And _what_? If he whats?? What exactly was he thinking? **NUDGE**.

“Look at me. Right here.” Cal put himself up into the taller man's space, felt his shoulders brace into intimidation before he'd even realized the movement, nipped farther forward into Loker's space as his throat dropped his voice toward murderous. “No.”

“Yeah. I get it.” Eli murmured and raised both hands into acceptance of the accusation, jaw dipping as he studied the older man's face.

“Respect her,” Lightman demanded, throat tight. “She's smarter than you are and she saw that. Ya think she doesn't see that?”

“She see it when you do it?” Loker asked with a chirpish tone than nearly earned him a slap.

“Course she does. She's smarter than the both of us,” he admitted easily, felt it go quiet past his lips. “But me? See, I get a pass. Because I'm me and because she's my partner and history, right?”

“ _You_ get a pass?” **PROD**.

“Yes, I do,” he answered sharply into the annoyance and accusation in the other man's tone, proudly lifted his jaw into meeting Loker's reproach.

“That only seems slightly hypocritical,” Eli murmured bitterly. Damn near a pout, it was.

“Then call me Jolly King of the Hypocrites, yeah? Because I'm tellin' you not to do it again.”

“Not like it was intentional.” The younger of the two finally let his body lax, leaning half seated against the edge of the conference table as his shoulders shrugged defeat. He seemed suddenly embarrassed, as though he'd just realized he'd been unconsciously ogling his boss. “I just - ”

“You _just_ nothin',” Cal thickened out between them. “Nothin'.”

“I get it.” Loker murmured, eyes dropped and smirk tamped down as the older man left the room.

 

**

 

“So which one's Montana, then?” He unconsciously drove himself directly into her space, pressed into her intentionally as she startled still at the edge of her desk and blinked at him. “Left or right of the one with the leg in the air?”

There was a distinct light of knowing in her eyes, brightened up blue with an arch look, “You've lived in this country long enough. You should know your states, Cal.”

He felt a grin twitch his lips and he'd be damned if he didn't note that she reflexively half smirked in response to the minuscule movement. “You don't know either, do ya?”

Gill's face banked right back toward supposedly annoyed but adoringly patient. “I do too know - ”

A surprised but pleasantly moaned sound mashed into his lips as he interrupted her argument and he pressed farther forward, cradling her closer with one arm looped along her waist. The nervous tightness of her shock lasted a beat longer than he'd hoped and he started to pull back, already mentally rehearsing some sort of apology to the blessed taste of her lipstick on his tongue.

All thoughts went lost when she followed right after his shifting and jerked into his shirt, clutching him back for another round that was harder and managed to wreck all coherency from his brain. She slicked her tongue along his and he was a goner, dead to the rights of her hand spreading on his chest and palming possession over his lungs. Her other hand mussed into his hair and the words in his head got jumbled enough that none of them seemed as important as slowly licking and nipping the end of the kiss along her pouted bottom lip. He wasn't even sure where his hands were but he was well aware that they were full of curves he'd been salivating over for years.

“To the right,” she sighed out, the angle her head tipped at giving him both permission and space to drag his mouth along her throat.

He snorted a laugh into her skin and wiped a lazy kiss against the same heated spot. “Lucky guess.”

“No, I'm telling you,” she murmured as her fingers caught along his jaw, tightening as she angled his mouth farther along the side of her neck, “to the right.”

**Truth** : Right – fact was, he just wasn't a man who could be told what to do. Simple constant, that was.

At least until she purred a sweet little noise through her nose and her fingers sought tenderly along his jaw, pulling his mouth lower along the graceful angling of her throat. “And lower.”

His grin leaned into kisses on perfumed skin and he let his hands curve on her, one of them braced so tightly into her spine that she was crushed up into him. “Don't know my states without you, darling.”

**Correction** : He wasn't generally a man who could be told what to do... however, he certainly wasn't opposed to some pushing or nudging.

Not so long as she was the guiding hand.

“Maybe you shouldn't rely on me, Cal,” she told him breathlessly. “I'm not entirely sure about Nebraska.”


End file.
